


The Wilding and the Maiden Fair

by ladydirewolf1



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-06-09 02:55:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6886591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladydirewolf1/pseuds/ladydirewolf1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a long journey to reclaim Winterfell. Lucky for Brienne, a certain Wilding happens to take a liking for her sword...and her bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wilding and the Maiden Fair

**Author's Note:**

> Nothing but love for this ship, thank you GOT S6...I just had to write it after last week's episode. Enjoy this Brienne and Tormund ficlet ,and let me know what thought!

“And you are sure, my lady, that you have no further need of my services?”

            Sansa gave her a soft smile, then her eyes flickered to the dark-haired man waiting for her by the main tent’s entrance. “I will always need you, Brienne…I was foolish to once think otherwise. But tonight I want to be with my brother again. The Seven only know how much time we have to make up.”

            Brienne nodded curtly,  though she could not help the smile itching to spread over her face. She had never seen the lady so happy as tonight, the first of many days to come in reclaiming her home. Even before, when Sansa was supposedly safe in the protection of Lord Baelish, no light had reached her eyes. _It is one only the north could give her…only her brother._

With a mutter of thanks, Brienne turned on her heel and headed back towards the main camp. The soft-grey tents of the northerners fluttered in the wind against their posts, the fabric shimmering like silver water beneath the pale moon. As she made her way further through the rows, the tents grew darker—first the black, rough fabric of the Nights Watch, then the scraggly whites and browns and greys of the Wildings. This part of camp was louder, and men and women alike roared and laughed, fought and fucked, beside their makeshift homes with no regard to the howling wind outside.

            _And of course Pod had to set up our tent_ here _of all places_ , thought Brienne bitterly as she rounded a corner, glaring at a pair of Wildings rolling about on the frosted snow, more beast-like than human. She scowled as she passed—the Free Folk had no concept of chivalry, it appeared. At least not the kind she was used to.

            Back in her tent, Brienne spotted Pod in the corner, grimacing as he tried to set a tray of food. There was a roast chicken in a sack behind him, and its smell made her stomach rumble. “Don’t worry about that,” she snapped as he spooned out some boiled potatoes from a tin. “I can prepare my own food, Pod.”

            He nodded furiously, though he didn’t bother to stop. “I know, m’lady.”

            Brienne groaned as she sat herself down on her makeshift straw mattress. “Did you _have_ to pitch the tent in this part of camp?”

            Pod glanced up, and a slippery white glob slid from the spoon to the ground. He flushed and said, “Sorry m’lady. It’s just—by the time I could grab us a tent, all the good spots were taken.”

            “And what took you so long to get there in the first place?”

            The color in his round cheeks deepened, and his eyes would not leave the dropped chunk of potato. His head tilted as he regarded it. “Well…”

            “ _Pod._ ”

            “I may have been…occupied at the time they started handing them out.”

            She raised one brow. “Occupied?”

            “Just making sure the Lady Sansa didn’t need any help…”

            “I was with her the whole day, and _you_ were nowhere near her.”

            Pod met her eyes, a guilty look spreading across his red face. “I may have been making sure from afar. But I promise, m’lady, it won’t happen—”

            She cut him off with a raised hand. “Podrick, how many times do I have to say it? Sansa Stark is the Lady of Winterfell. She has no time for my _squire_ to stand around making eyes at her. Is that understood?”

            He nodded feverishly, then began dishing out the rest of the cold potatoes. The spoon screeched against the metal faster and faster, and Brienne couldn’t help but wish she’d let him down easier. She’d known about the boy’s fancy for the girl since they escaped Winterfell, but neither she nor Sansa had the heart to tell him. Pod’s love for the lady was more sincere than any other men in the poor girl’s life… _It is a true love,_ she thought sadly, staring across at him. _But a cruel one all the same. Podrick isn’t destined for a great lady’s heart any more than I am for any man’s…that’s just how things are._

            Finally the screeching of metal stopped, and Brienne stared at the tray he pushed towards her. “Brilliant…” Her stomach gave a lurch at the white, lumpy things they called potatoes, but at least the chicken would be good.  Just as she reached for the food, a sudden gust of wind tore both their eyes to the tent’s entrance. The man they called Tormund Giantsbane stood there, wild-haired and wild-eyed from the freezing air outside.

            “Can I help you with something?” she asked, annoyed.

            Tormund’s eyes scanned the tent—they lingered on the chicken for a bit longer than she appreciated—before coming to a rest on her. They travelled from the Valyrian greatsword still attached to her hip, to her glaring eyes. He smirked, though it was hard to tell beneath the beard. “You know how to use that thing?” he asked, nodding to the blade.

            Brienne set her jaw, fighting the urge to grind her teeth. The smell from her untouched plate of food was overwhelming. _And just when I was about to eat._ “Better than I do a spoon.”

            “Care teh teach a fellow solider a thing or two?” he asked, pulling out a greatsword of his own from behind his back. “We don’t fight with so much steel up north.” It was an ugly thing, old and long and rusted.

            “Aren’t you friends with the Lord Commander?” she accused, trying to meet Pod’s eye. “Couldn’t you go bother him?” She was getting more annoyed at the Wilding by the second, and had hoped her squire would provide useful in getting her out of this. _No such luck, though_. The boy had his eyes glued to the sword and the man who held it.

            Tormund swung the blade to the side, tilting his head at the way it clumsily fell through the air. He grunted, then set the sword down against the tent wall. “I’d prefer a lady’s teaching, if we’re bein’ honest. My Wilding mother taught me how to fight, and look at the number of bastards I’ve killed. I reckon any southern lady lucky enough to have a sword like that one ought to be pretty damn good.”

            Brienne’s cheeks seemed to grow hot, and she quickly took a deep breath of the frigid air. She eyed the rusted sword once more and rolled her eyes. _No use teaching with a dull blade._ “Fine. My—my squire will fetch you some sharper steel…Pod?”

            He turned to her, startled. A bead of sweat trickled down his face, and his shirt had begun to grow dark beneath his boiled leather breastplate. “Yes?” he squeaked out. His eyes darted back to Tormund, who stood watching the boy with a smirk of amusement.

            “Podrick!”

            The boy’s head whipped back to her, and he clumsily rose to his feet. The tin of potatoes fell from his lap, and the remaining globs spilled lazily onto the frozen ground. “Yes, m’lady—right away, m’lady.” He made for the entrance, scurrying past the Wilding with the fear of the Stranger plastered to his round face.

            Brienne cleared her throat. “So you’ve never fought with a greatsword before. I suppose we’d better start with the basics: hand grip and carrying and…” her voice trailed off when the Wilding began walking towards her, clearly not listening to a word she said. He plopped down on the ground, stretching and twisting his back until it released a satisfied _pop!_ He proceeded to pull and yank at his other joints, and each one responded with a disgusting _crack._

Her mouth fell open. “Are you _sure_ you want to learn how to fight?”

            Tormund looked up, and he frowned at her expression. “Nope.”

            “So you already know how to wield that thing?” she asked, nodding to the blade.

            “Nope.” His knuckles _cracked,_ and he released a loud, completely unabashed groan of pleasure.

            “Well what are you doing here?” she spat out, exasperated.

            “Lord Crow threw me out of his tent,” Tormund started, settling with his legs crossed on the hard ground and helping himself to her chicken. He tore off a great chunk, never breaking his gaze even as the hot grease dribbled down into his fiery beard. “Said he needed some alone time with his fire-haired girl.” With a satisfied grunt, he swallowed thickly, then licked the fat from each finger. Slowly. Brienne winced at the sound. “Now, you wouldn’t know where a man could find a tent of his own for some “alone time”, would’ya?”

            Brienne tore the remaining chicken from his hand, stuffing it back into a sack. What Sansa Stark did or didn’t do with the Lord Commander (or whatever he was) was not her concern. Sansa was happy and safe and loved. That’s all that mattered for the girl. It’s all that mattered for anyone.

             “Can’t you find someone else to bother?” she demanded. “There must be a Wilding woman here you’d rather try your luck with.” Her eyes ran over him, taking in the wild, unkempt mane, the muscled arms beneath the furs and skins. _Even I know a good-looking man when I see one._ The image of another man, another warrior, swam forwards. Her stomach lurched at the thought, and she hastily pushed it aside.

            “’Suppose so. Though it would be a shame…”

            “What would?”

            “To miss out on a night gazin’ at a face like that one.”

            Brienne stiffened. “If you’re here to imply—”

            “I’d be meaning no implications, m’lady. I’ve seen lots of women beyond the Wall, and none of ‘em looks like you. None of ‘em as fierce and kind to look at besides.”

            “Oh.” _Does he really mean to say…_ Her cheeks flushed, and Brienne found herself almost stammering for words. _You are a knight,_ she told herself firmly. _Or whatever that can_ _mean for a woman. Don’t let him know your weaknesses._ She thought back on her childhood, when the stupid little lords spun her around and whispered lovely falsehoods in her ears. _But this is no southern lord…he’s no smirking Lannister either._ “Do you mean to say,” she began, taking a breath to cool her face. “Do you mean to say…you think I’m _pretty_?” The word felt strange on her tongue, and she could not hide the disgust that fell with it.

            Tormund nodded, grey eyes glinting in the candlelight. “I’do. Prettier than that Jon Snow. And that’s sayin’ something.”

            Her mouth went achingly dry, heat rushed to her face, and her stomach churned all at once. It was a strange feeling, to say the least. “And—and _why_ can’t you go find another tent? Or set one up yourself”

            “All of ‘em are full, m’lady Tarth. Lord Crow is a good man, aye, but a stingy one. And no time for a new one neither. Can’t set up a tent in this wind. It’ll freeze your fingers right off, and that’s not to mention what’ll happen to a man’s—”

            “That’s quite enough,” she said, sighing and closing her eyes. _Poor Pod…he’s probably outside the tent right now, shivering and praying the Wilding will leave soon._ Brienne cracked open one eye—the wild-haired Wilding grinned back at her. _He’s a smart lad. And if the stories are true, he’ll find a warmer bed than his pallet in here. Besides…it might prove useful to keep an eye on this Tormund Giantsbane. Just in case…_ Brienne told herself this firmly, and eventually she consented to the man.

            Tormund let out a great cry of victory, reaching behind her and tearing the remaining chicken from the sack. “M’lady Tarth!” He ripped off a leg with his teeth and stuffed it in his mouth, bones and all. Then he held out the mangled carcass, raising his brows. He shook it once, and Brienne rolled her eyes.

            “It’s m’lady _of_ Tarth,” she corrected through bites of the meat. Her hands glistened in the warm light, just begging to be licked clean. Brienne hastily wiped them off on her breeches. _At least one of us should have some manners…_

            He ignored her, and a glob of fat tangled itself in his beard. “Got any ale?”

            “ _No._ I don’t drink while I’m on duty.”

            He grunted. “Got any wine, then?”

            Brienne rolled her eyes. “No. Like I said, I don’t—”

            “I’d give that sword arm of yours a’go, drunk or not.” He flashed a grin, all teeth and greasy, wide-stretched lips. _At least he has a nice smile,_ she thought, immediately shocked at herself for thinking it.

             “That’s what men always say. Until they’re grinning ear to ear.”

            Tormund snorted and threw down his gnawed-at bones. “M’lady Tarth hasn’t met a man like me before.” He wiggled his brows, grin widening.

            She couldn’t help but laugh at that. “Funny—that’s what men like you always say.”

            “And who are these _men like me_?”

            She thought of Jaime—shit-stained and weak until they made it back to the capital, but still every bit the golden knight he once was. “They’re fairy tales,” she said slowly, smile dropping slightly. “All fierce and strong until they’re not…until they leave you.”

            Tormund leaned forwards, awkwardly giving her hand a pat. He quickly drew it back at her glare. “We don’t have your golden princes and stories north of the Wall, but I tell you what. You meet this knight again, and I’ll hold him down while you turn his pretty eyes black’n blue.”

            Brienne couldn’t help but smile at his sincerity. “He does have pretty eyes,” she admitted, staring at the place his hand had touched, lost in memories of emerald and gold. “I may take you up on that offer one day, but for now let’s give these Boltons something to bitch about.”

            She rose from the ground and pointed to what had been Pod’s pallet. “This one’s yours, Wilding.” It lay beside her own, far closer than she would have preferred. _At least he’s within arm’s reach if I need to pull a knife in the night._ Brienne squared her shoulder, and she met Tormund’s eye. “No talking, no touching, no _funny_ business or you’ll be sorry,” she said shortly.

            Tormund nodded, though a grin twitched at the corner of his mouth. “Aye, m’lady Tarth. That I believe.”

 

* * *

 

 

            Brienne woke to the sounds of bird chirping and men talking, both low and muffled through the tent walls. _Dawn already? I haven’t slept this well since King’s Landing._ As the fog of sleep began to drift from her mind, another sound flitted in—a deep, rumbling snore. And there was something else too: a heavy, oddly comforting weight across her chest, holding her against a strange warmth—

            “ _Seven fucking hells,_ ” Brienne cursed under her breath. Her eyes shot open, and she fought every instinct to reach for the blade at her hip. The Wilding must have rolled over some time in the night, and his strong arms had found their way to hold her against his softly rising and falling chest. Brienne shut her eyes, for a moment allowing herself to relax against his soft furs, his broad, well-muscled chest. Then reality took hold, and sleep lifted its hold on her mind.

            “ _Tormund…_ ” she said in a low, dangerous voice.

            He grunted, hugging her even closer. His beard tickled the back of her neck as he shifted towards her.

            “Tormund, if you don’t get off me this second, I swear by the Seven I’ll cut your cock off and feed it to the Others.” She heard him snort with laughter, the hot breath washing over her neck. The hair there prickled. _Clearly_ he was awake now.

            “I don’t doubt it, m’lady Tarth,” he breathed against her, voice gruff and thick with sleep. “But gimme a chance to use it first.”


End file.
